scarlettina: (Madness)
My dreams last night were full of writers--and the predictable messages when you're, well, me.

First I dreamed I was at Kit Kerr's place ([personal profile] aberwyn) and she was cleaning out her bookshelves, getting rid of extras and books she'd never read. While she was doing that, she was talking about her latest book, and how she was going to self-publish, and would I edit it--because I was the only one who could. There was something in there about buying a book I didn't really need. But I committed to doing the editing, knowing that it meant I wouldn't be doing my own writing if I did so.

Then I dreamed that I'd written a play for a school performance--a terrible play, just really bad, and I knew it. In the dream, five major science fiction writers were attending (I remember specifically Joe Haldeman, Greg Bear, and Bob Silverberg--the two others were vaguely familiar faces, but my dream self did not put names to them; one of them may have been Harlan). I made a point to tell them it was bad, to not have high expectations. I was a member of the cast, by the way. Right before the play began, I retreated to the restroom a) to use it and b) to refresh my memory on my lines. A couple of the writers called after me, making fun of me for writing a play. (I know all of these writers but I know Greg well enough to know that this is emphatically not something he would do. Ever.) Of all people, Haldeman followed me into the bathroom to ask me why I kept telling them the play was bad, and why I was giving myself a hard time for writing a play instead of fiction. I made him go away because I had business to do (i.e., relieve myself). When I was done, I went out to watch the warm-up number before the play began--a bunch of the boys in the cast doing a performance of "Gee Officer Krupke!" from West Side Story. Then it was curtain time. I took my place . . . and realized I didn't know my lines. I wasn't off book--and the curtain was about to go up.

See, these dreams? Are all about getting in my own way, feeling inadequate and unprepared. I've been giving myself a hard time about not writing fiction but working on the board game design instead--as if taking a different creative approach is a bad thing. I actually had a conversation with a friend who's a well-known name in the RPG design sphere in which I told him I felt intimidated by talking about the board game in front of him because of who he is (and talking about it in general because some of my friends are Grand Old Men (tm) in the RPG business). And tonight I have therapy but I haven't done my homework for this week.

It's a good thing I'm a cognitive dreamer with an analytical mind, otherwise I'd be kind of a mess. I mean, I am kind of a mess; I have spent my adult life surrounded by the most extraordinary creators, whether they're writers or designers and I still have self-image issues, even though I know that they wouldn't be spending time with me if I didn't myself have something to offer as a creator and generally interesting person. Some part of me always figured that at some point, one gets over this sort of thing, that as a grown-up I would conquer this sort of madness. Having not done so by this point, I'm guessing one never does after all. One just sort of learns how to deal with it. I'm learning. May I say, however, that it's a pain in the ass? It's a pain in the ass.
scarlettina: (Huh?)
I went to what was billed as an "expressive painting" class last night. The teacher is an art therapist. She wasn't there to be a therapist to the class, so much as she was there to facilitate our creativity. I painted for more than 90 minutes. Based on last night's dreams, things were unearthed.

I dreamed that I went to a place where masks of people's faces--life masks, death masks--were kept. The person who ran the place, or curated the place, took out stacks of masks in twos and threes, and with them, loosed the ghosts that came with them. I was a reporter or investigator there to report on what went on there. I woke up when the ghosts became too intense, when it was too much. I was overcome by sleep, but for a few minutes, I lay in bed fighting sleep because I was too afraid to go back to that room.

Then I dreamed I was out with SA. We were bicycle riding in a city, maybe New York, maybe some other place. We stopped at a mind-reader/fortune teller. He looked at me and did a reading, telling me about where I'd been born, who my father was and what he did for a living. He was a revealed as a fake when he said that my marriage to SA was going to last and last. When I held up my hand to show that I wasn't wearing a wedding ring, he changed his story, saying that at this point, it was unlikely I'd ever get married. SA was upset by this and insisted on paying for the reading. I made him keep his money and paid myself, telling the reader that the next time he tells a woman she's going to be alone the rest of her life, he shouldn't be so gleeful about it.

We walked away. I was walking my bicycle. SA didn't have his. We passed a group of people milling on the side of the street. D was there, his beard grown out, his face smudged with dark stage make-up. I had this idea that they'd been to the theater. I knew he was coming to Seattle soon. When he saw me, he turned and walked away. I followed him. I end-ran him, caught him and said to him, "I hear you're coming to Seattle next month. Do you have time for coffee?" And he said, coldly, "No. Not ever." And walked away.

I went back to SA and we kept walking.

When I woke up, I lay in bed again, in the morning darkness. I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. It was very real, a very tangible pressure. Weirdly, I was not alarmed by this. It was almost comforting. My instant thought was that it was D. It wasn't either of the cats; Zeke was on the foot of the bed, and Sophie was in her cat bed across the hall.

On occasion, I've had a visitation from The Voice. I haven't had one in a long time. Maybe the tap on the shoulder was from The Voice. I understand what my dreams were telling me. I wish I knew what that tap was trying to say.
scarlettina: (Angel)
I've been sick the last couple of days, and last night I had what felt like a significant dream. The sensation was powerful.

I dreamed that I was at a restaurant on a date with someone who I really liked. He wasn't a dream date in the visual sense, but he was funny and smart and I liked him. (Actually he was kind of short and chubby and balding with glasses and more lines on his face than I would have expected for someone my age.) We were chatting away amiably when someone came and tapped me on the shoulder. It was someone I knew though I can't say whom exactly. They asked me to come over to their table in the restaurant. I didn't want to go, but they said it was urgent.

I excused myself and went to their table, which was filled with publishing types. I remember that literary agent and editor Shawna McCarthy was there. It was a business lunch. Literary agent Don Maass sat down at the table as someone else at the table received a phone call. They handed it to me and explained that it was author Joe Haldeman on the line. He'd received a call from [ profile] jaylake, years after Jay's death, and he wanted to talk to me about it. Why did he want to talk to me? Because, I was told, you know things. And because someone had listened to my voicemail for me and said that I had a message from Jay as well.

So I took the phone, and Joe started to tell this long, complicated story about his time in Vietnam, complete with 1960s soundtrack. His voice kept fading in and out and the restaurant got noisier. My date kept watching me. I moved to a table where I thought it would be quieter so that I could hear what Joe was saying. As it turned out, [ profile] oldmangrumpus was in the restaurant too. He saw me and came over to introduce me to the person he was having lunch with. I waved him off. I kept trying to listen to the call, but somehow, the line was just silent.

If this isn't a metaphor for getting distracted from attending to the things I want, I can't think of a better one. I think it's interesting that it was so focused on publishing. I need to think about this one more. I need to think.
scarlettina: (Hug)
This morning, I dreamed that my little daughter and I found a baby hippo on the balcony. "Can we keep him?" she asked. I told her that we could, for a while, but that someday he'd be too big and we'd have to give him to Woodland Park Zoo. We all hugged: me, the daughter, the hippo and my girlfriend, who looked at me and said, "Some family, eh? Weird." My little daughter asked me about keeping him again. I told her we couldn't, that someday he'd be bigger than our bathtub (that was me, trying to find a size my little 2-year-old could relate to). She looked sad.

I know where all the parts of this dream came from. I'm such a cognitive dreamer. I guess that my subconscious figures that where a sledgehammer won't do, some kawaii might. :: sigh ::
scarlettina: (Reality Check)
Night before last, I had an interesting dream. (Well, interesting to me anyway.) I was in Seattle Center at the Armory (formerly the Center House) having lunch with my brother. He got up to get some ketchup and my far-away friend BK came by to say hello. We hugged, chatted and he left. My brother came back and I told him he'd missed BK. "Well, crap," he said. "It would have been cool to meet him." I got up to go look for BK, to see if I could catch him before he left the area. When I went outside to find him, I discovered that people were leaving the area and then I came face to face with the reason why: a big Serengeti lion was stalking towards me. That's when I woke up.

I'm a pretty cognitive dreamer. I know what this dream was about.

BK is a rather formidable guy with a LOT of brains, a strong military background and a ferociously independent political streak. More than any other veteran I know, he--and his wife--are outspoken, plain-spoken, and have no time for bullshit, so when debates flare up on Facebook, they waste no time in telling you exactly what they think in unvarnished and often pretty brutal terms. You return the volley or admit you're outgunned and step away. On the one hand, I admire this forthrightness. On the other hand, it's hard to be on the business end of such fire, especially given the premium I put on being careful, polite, and thoughtful with those about whom I care.

I was on the business end of such fire recently, and it upset me. I stepped away from the exchange pretty quickly, understanding that a) political debates on Facebook get very heated very fast, B) I don't always have the presence of mind to manage my own response in such situations in a measured, objective way, and C) my investment in the substance of the debate was pretty low but my response to the language used in my direction was pretty high. It wasn't personal; it was debate, which is why I've weighed my response so carefully.

In the wake of that exchange, though, I've made a point to keep political debate off of my Facebook wall, and I've kept some distance between myself and BK online. BK has shown up in conversations on my wall since then, responding in friendly, pretty benign ways. The dream I noted above came in the wake of his posting a humorous video to my wall that entertained me and that was meant as a gesture of friendship and goodwill. The dream was a reminder that, like a lion, which is strong and beautiful and appealing, my friend is also a formidable, dangerous man and to act accordingly.

BK and I live very different lives. It's one of the reasons that I've maintained the connection--not the only one, by any means, but it's an important aspect of the friendship to me. I live in such a comfortable bubble, surrounded by people who live in ways very similar to mine. He has gone places and done things that I don't know if I'd have the fortitude to do, even with training. This friendship--maybe friendly acquaintanceship is a better description--is a reminder to be aware that not everyone lives the safe, comfortable life that I do, that people make choices significantly different than the ones I make, have different priorities and perspectives. It's important. But it's not always easy.
scarlettina: (Madness)
Sign that I'm stressed about annual reviews at work: This morning I dreamed that I was called into a meeting with all the managers at work. I was handed a deck of cards and a banana peel and told I would need them for our discussion. Sounds . . . about right.
scarlettina: (Sleepy)
Last night, I went to bed determined to have better dreams than I've had the last few nights. Instead, I had car dreams that are pretty clearly connected to work and my upcoming vacation.

First, I dreamed that my car was stolen. I was at an event of some kind and, when it was over, I went out to the parking lot and couldn't find my car. It wasn't where I left it. I saw Charles de Lint in a car pulling out and begged him for a lift. He looked at me like I was crazy.

Next thing I know, I'm in an underground garage. In the dream, this is the garage of the apartment building in which I live, an upscale place in some undetermined city. My car, in this dream, was something like a pick-up truck—bigger than anything I've ever owned. But I couldn't get it out because the entrance and the exit to the floor upon which it was parked were jammed with people's extra furniture. And even as I roamed around, frustrated about not being able to get out, more and more people brought in furniture that blocked the ramps, until the place looked like an antiques shop. I was alternately angry about not being able to get out, and intrigued by the stuff people were shoving into place.

Basically, this is all about how the more I try to finish up stuff at the office before I take my vacation, the more people push stuff onto my plate to take care of. It's an interesting and not inappropriate metaphor. But these dreams are not what I was hoping for last night, and Zeke woke me twice during the night for cuddles, which means I'm not well-rested today. ::sigh:: Back to the salt mines....
scarlettina: (Spirit Steps)
This morning as I was reading my flist, I found myself reading a back-entry of [ profile] kate_schaefer's about a friend of hers who died years ago, and of whom she'd recently dreamed. It shook loose a realization that I'd dreamed about [ profile] dochyel a couple of nights back. I'd dreamed that I was sitting or standing across from a friend (one of those generic, unidentified friends who show up in dreams) who was sitting on a flight of stairs, and that [ profile] dochyel was curled up on a coffee table, I think, between us. He'd been there for years, apparently. We knew he was dead, but there he lay, perfect, as if he were only sleeping--and then he began to rouse and awaken. And then I woke up.

I've dreamed about him a few times since he died, and we're always passing each other somewhere. The last time I dreamed about him, we were in a farmer's market taking place in Grand Central Station. He was wearing his hair long and, rather than the Van Dyke he'd worn for years, he wore a handlebar mustache (which was a pretty good look for him, I have to admit). Anyway, I was delighted to see him and he was happy to see me, but when I asked him to come with me to see my apartment ("Come see the house," I said. "You never got to visit."), he told me he had to go; he was on his way elsewhere and he was clearly pressed for time--if a little regretful about it--as if he was going to miss some cosmic train departure for some other dimension if he didn't hurry.

That dream always left me with two reactions. The first was that feeling that the people I care most about often don't have time for me, which is more about my own abandonment issues than it is related to the truth of my experience; my friends are generous and loving with their time and I know it. The second was a feeling of gratitude that I got to see him at all. One of my great sadnesses about his death is that the night before he died we'd been in email planning to get together when I next visited New York, which was only to be in a week or so.

I haven't dreamed about [ profile] markbourne at all since he passed away. Or maybe I did once; I have a vague memory of seeing his smiling face in a dream, but that's all. For a while, I found it distressing that he didn't appear in my dreams, as if it was a choice he was making rather than a choice my subconscious was making. The woo-woo, spiritual side of me still feels that way a bit mainly, I think, because given the discussions that [ profile] dochyel and I had years ago about the nature of the soul and its connections on different levels of consciousness, I always feel like my dreams about [ profile] dochyel really are visits from him rather than my manifesting his image myself--even if he is too busy to linger for a proper catch-up. If encounters in dreams really are visits from the other side, then I'm happy to have them, and I'll assume that the lack of visits from [ profile] markbourne simply means that he's OK with where we were when he left--which is to say good friends who knew each other pretty well and were happy and comfortable there. Doesn't mean I wouldn't still like to sit down and have a whiskey with him, or with [ profile] dochyel for that matter.

I think one of my goals for this weekend is to do that with everyone who is solidly here with me on this plane of existence. That would be . . . a lot of whiskey. Maybe for once I should let someone else do the driving.
scarlettina: (Sleepy)
Woke at 6:07 AM. Bleh.

1) I had a night full of hideous anxiety dreams. I'm still upset about missing the bus to the airport for my trip (and watching it pull away from the curb) because I forgot to pack something.

2) [ profile] rosefox has made a really thoughtful GenreVille blog post about harassment at conventions. Well worth the read.

3) [ profile] suricattus talks about the evolution of taste through changing one's diet and habits. Specifically she gets into her evolving distaste for poor-quality chocolate and for salty snack foods. I've experienced this. But I've also experienced the reversal of this effect, which is interesting. I don't put up with crappy chocolate nearly as much as I used to, but I still enjoy a Milky Way mini-bite candy every now and then. Doing a whole bar? God no! I guess my tolerance has changed: I can enjoy a bite but more than that is an offense to my senses. Ultimately, this is a good thing.

4) I haven't commented on the Democratic National Convention, partly because I've been too busy and partly because I didn't have much argument with anything I heard. I did come away with the following thoughts, though: Michelle Obama really knows how to write and deliver a speech. She's so smart; I'm so proud to have her as First Lady. Bill Clinton should be named Explainer-in-Chief and I'd vote for him again in a heartbeat. Barack Obama is the only candidate I'd even consider voting for in this election, and if we don't reelect him, this country is going to be in deep, deep trouble.

5) I have a mountain of freelance work to do this weekend. I ought to get down to that. ::sigh::

BONUS! 6) [ profile] kateyule's post about the books she's been reading put me in mind of a story I heard on NPR recently. They did a piece on a study about the relative happiness expressed in popular music over the last sixty years and found that it has been decreasing steadily since . . . the mid-late 1960s. And all I could think about was how "Eleanor Rigby" (1966) would have struck a listener in 1955 as a really peculiar, possibly slightly repellent piece of music. But then everything seemed to change with Revolver, which included more complex orchestration than most pop music at the time, more complex subject matter, and less reliance on love songs. Fascinating stuff.
scarlettina: (Huh?)
Woke at 4 AM and couldn't go back to sleep, so I read until about 6, got up, had breakfast, and went back to sleep. Woke up twice after that: once due to a disturbing dream about injuring a pet cat, and once after dreaming that I was house-sitting for [ profile] jaylake in a house I've never seen before.

In the dream, he was away somewhere, and I was preparing my last meal in his house before his return. I couldn't figure out where his vegetable steamer was, so I rigged up a contraption made of a sieve, a boiling pot of water, and a birdcage, and made a terrible mess. I panicked because I couldn't remember whether or not I'd fed or watered the cat, and ultimately refreshed the cat's water from a well involving a thick wooden bucket and a hand-carved wooden ladle. I kept reminding myself to clean up the mess in the kitchen and kept failing to do so. I made the bed, watched the cat escape out a window, and then was astonished when [ profile] jaylake walked in the door and said, "Oh, this isn't good," before noticing that I was standing right there. He nevertheless gave me a hearty hug hello, which was reassuring to say the least. That's when I woke up.

I promise, Jay, that when you get home from Confusion, I won't have been house sitting for you or have made a terrible mess in your kitchen. I can't help you with the water well, though. You'll need to speak to your landlord about that.
scarlettina: (Huh?)
Last night, I dreamed that I was getting my hair cut and colored in preparation for my brother's wedding. My appointment was at the hair salon my mother used to take me to when I was a child. The hair dresser was a large blond woman who cut my hair, colored it, and combed it out. The cut looked like Cher's hair circa 1968. But she hadn't washed out the dye. When I insisted she do it, she refused. The radio in the salon then got very loud, and no matter what I said to her, I couldn't hear her response. My impression was that she was telling me her business-grounded reasons for not completed my service which, to her mind, were completely reasonable. I argued that washing the dye out of my hair was completely reasonable, that I'd been their patron for 20+ years, and to wash the damn dye out. No luck.

I went to a sink to wash the dye out myself and couldn't find a clean towel. When I did find a towel, there was a squirmy puppy underneath it--wasn't going to use that. I'd end up smelling like puppy. Then I noticed another, clean, folded towel just beyond the puppy, grabbed that, and started to rinse my hair.

So, the lesson is . . . the best way to get something done is to do it yourself? In what world is this news? Maybe the lesson is . . . sometimes you have to look past the puppy.
scarlettina: (Sleepy)
...and I realized that, really, zombie stories can only end in a couple of ways: they get you and eat you, or you kill yourself. No place is safe from the walking dead. It's not like I haven't always known this; it's just that now I know it with a sort of all-consuming, terrorized conviction.

In this dream, I was trapped in a house. For some reason, my family in the dream was made up of people including a young Michael Douglas, Keira Knightley, and other people whom I recognized in the dream but can't remember now. These zombies had enough sentience to talk a little bit, so they'd either menace you or express their regret before attack. The last thing I remember is standing in a screened-in porch, holding the front door of the house shut against a creature with bloated, almost clown-like features. I asked it, "Who are you?" It said, "I am the wolf."

And then I woke up. I am awake, and I think I'm rested, but I didn't really enjoy my sleep like I do sometimes. This was . . . disturbing.
scarlettina: (Snowflake 2)
I woke this morning, got out of bed, and went into the kitchen. I fixed breakfast for myself, sat down with food and my laptop to read the morning mail, and then looked out the window. I'd been up for 20 minutes and only then realized that it was snowing. That said, my alarm clock wakes me with the news on NPR every morning and I'd heard the weather forecast. I'd heard that it was snowing, but I hadn't assimilated the information. The snowfall didn't last long; it's already stopped, but it's left the trees and shrubs, my balcony railing, and the roof of the house next door covered with a light sugar frosting, quite pretty. I can already see that it's melting on the balcony floor. I doubt it will last out the day, but for the moment, it's pleasant and not overwhelming.

I had disturbing dreams last night, one of which included my being at a convention and fighting over closet space--with the people in the room adjacent to mine. One of those people happened to be my friend EF. She was screaming at me and at my brother, whose room was several doors away. Finally, we all ended up out in the hallway, my brother insisting--in an oddly strained and high-pitched way--that EF shouldn't be mad at him because he loves folk music. I know it doesn't sound disturbing, but all the screaming just freaked me out. But that's true in real life for me, too: I find it enormously upsetting when people shriek at each other.

I'm glad to be awake. The real world, with all its difficulties, is still easier to navigate than my dreamscape.
scarlettina: (Have A Cookie)
1) My fingernails are metal-flecked pink, the result of a deluxe manicure, a treat from MW as part of her visit this weekend. My fingertips feel oddly cold and the pink feels PINK even though it's actually a deep pink rather than a bright pink. I feel like a five-year-old with fingernails of an inappropriate color. Should I have chosen the bronzier color that wouldn't have been quite so conspicuous?

2) I dreamed last night that I had a little daughter about 6 months old who looked just like I did at that age. I remember who the father was but will not name the name of this dream father because it would make him uncomfortable. But we'd make beautiful kids. :-) Beyond that, all I remember about the dream was that we were sitting on the floor by the fireplace in my livingroom, and I was talking with a friend--but can't remember who that person was.

3) Remember when I mentioned that [ profile] kateyule and I did some prep work for baking when I visited with her last week (was it last week? Or the week before? I'm confused.)? Well, now it can be told--we were making gingerbread cookies for Marsnaut [ profile] davidlevine. Kate's posted pictures of the final result--a set of Mars and astronaut-themed gingerbread cookies. Pix of the process cut for flist mercy. )

4) Plans are afoot today for either the zoo or the museum of flight depending upon the weather (which is so far gray but not wet), but I haven't heard from MW and her crew as yet. I hope she remembers to call me on the land line and not the cell--I've no more minutes at the moment.

5) I'm itching to get back to the story I'm writing. Naturally, that means I'm hankering to shower, wash dishes, look over the freelance editorial work I've picked up, you know--the usual. How predictable. Maybe that means I'm a real writer or something. :-)
scarlettina: (Spirits)
Dreams: I dreamed last night that I was clearing off a dining room table only to discover a kitten had been buried under the piles of stuff. It looked almost freshly born but somehow I knew it was from the same litter as my-now-six-months-old Sophie. Undernourished and sleepy, it was still alive. I gave it three saucers of lumpy soy milk (because apparently even in my dreams I'm still lactose intolerant). Then the kitten looked up at me through drowsy eyes and asked, "Have I had enough?" I told it yes. It then spoke for a while in very sophisticated English, though I don't remember what it talked about.

Sophie Watercat: Sophie likes water. The water bowl isn't just for drinking. It's for spilling over, splashing around, or for dropping toys in. Interestingly, it's mostly paper she puts into water; I never find catnip pillows or mousies in the water dish. The only water she doesn't like is the water that comes out of my water pistol. She's an odd puss.

Reclaiming the left-behind: In this, I refer to my guitar. I have a beautiful Ovation Balladeer that sits in its hard case in my bedroom closet. [ profile] jackwilliambell, as some of you know, is a musician, often totes his guitar with him, and often improvises just for the joy of it. A couple of nights ago, I picked up the guitar he typical keeps in a stand in his living room and started picking at it a bit. He offered me one of his guitar stands if I promised to take out my guitar and start playing again. I came home last night with a guitar stand. Today, my guitar will come out of its hidey hole and I'll start working on my callouses and manual dexterity again. I have no idea what Sophie will make of this development. Spanky is long since used to my occasional return to musicianship. This should be interesting.

Autumn in the Northwest: When I left Jack's place last night, it was 39 degrees out and the sky was crystal clear. I had three blankets on my bed when I went to sleep. Either today or tomorrow, I'll be vacuuming out the baseboard heaters so I can turn on the heat, though with all the sunlight I get in my place, I may put off turning on the heat for a while. The windows--and the fact that I live in the attic--often keep the place warm. Everything feels crisp right now. The light is changing, the land is turning browny-gold, the sky is quieter, and I dream of apples. I've been looking for Macs and haven't seen any. [ profile] oldmangrumpus reports a Mac sighting at a local grocery store. I must investigate. I must also look for a corn maze to wander and start working on my Halloween costume.

It's October and I wonder, why do Fridays in October feel more autumnal and haunted than other days of the week?

PS--I need an autumn icon. I'd better get on that....
scarlettina: (Huh?)
A while back, I had a dream about having a meal at a soul food restaurant. The place was little more than a shack, no sign, no name, and the tables were out in the open, not inside. It was by the side of a busy, four-lane road and if you didn't know it was a restaurant, you'd drive by it entirely, assuming it was little more than a shanty for the homeless.

In the first dream, I ate my meal while the owner, an opinionated black woman of questionable stability, sat across from me and spouted about politics and children. It was clear that her place had a devoted following, several regular customers who hung out in what I recall being a sort of parlor in the room next to the kitchen, a place filled with used, lumpy furniture and lots of pillows. The one character I remember most clearly of the group there is a big man with awesome dreads in jeans and a tank top who made sure everyone was comfortable, and was sort of the restaurant owner's protector--not boyfriend but a friend--who believed in what she was doing (though I don't remember precisely what that was except that it had to do with children).

Last night I dreamed that I was suddenly part of the restaurant owner's community and we were planning to take part in some sort of annual children's festival. My job was to design the booth where we'd serve food...except that it was to have no sign, and the kids (from where, I don't know) were to dictate the main features of the design. I remember attempting a design of my own first, a basic stand with a daisy theme, but then I remember being at a wooden picnic table with a group of maybe six kids, all around the age of 7 or so, white kids, black kids, Asian kids, asking them for their ideas. Spanky was there, wandering between the children's leg, and one of them commented that he "didn't have a grown-up cat's accent." I commented that Sophie wouldn't have one either, since he was her only feline role model.

After discussing more ideas for the booth with the kids, I woke up. I would like to note for the record that I've never eaten at a soul food restaurant and have little idea of what makes up such cuisine though I have some vague, uninformed notion that it's similar to Cajun food. I've never met a woman like the one in the dream (though I have met a man somewhat like the one in the dream).

Generally speaking, I'm a pretty cognitive dreamer and it's often easy for me to discern the origins of the dreams I have. This one, I can't figure out. And why it's the first one I have sleeping in my own bed again after being away for ten days, I really have no idea.
scarlettina: (Make things)
I worked on the Sekrit Project yesterday from 11:00 AM until 6 PM with a half-hour break for lunch. Got home around 7:30ish and worked until 9:00 PM.

During the day, I had company. [ profile] e_bourne, God bless her, arrived at 11; she was my main monitor, keeping me honest. I then had visits throughout the day from [ profile] brumbjorn, [ profile] varina8 and [ profile] oldmangrumpus, all of whom cheered me on with fruit, good humor, fine conversation and, of course, kibbitzing. Spanky supervised. I made significant progress on the Sekrit Project.

By 9:00 PM I was so tired I could barely stand. I was in bed and unconscious by 10. I slept the sleep of the virtuous, and I dreamed.

I dreamed that I was at some sort of party in my parents' living room. I found a litter of kittens in the drawer of an end table by the couch. [ profile] jaylake and [ profile] calendula_witch were there and scolded me about keeping my kittens in a drawer. (See, [ profile] jaylake? We got to see each other after all!) I chose one to keep and offered to give the others away to the small crowd in attendance. I worried about how long the kittens had been in the drawer and whether or not I'd fed them--but they looked plump and healthy and unscathed.

And if kittens represent my inner artist, then all of this makes perfect sense. Being a cognitive dreamer is annoying enough; that I'm so transparent and so predictable is just embarrassing. I couldn't even lucid-dream my way into a more interesting situation.

I still have more to do today and, in fact, have already done some of said work. Disturbingly, I find myself--despite the applications of soap and hot water, breakfast, and tea--groggy, unsteady and a little cross-eyed. This condition does not lend itself to the precision and focus that my work today will require. Maybe I'm dehydrated from not drinking enough water yesterday.

And now I have hiccups.

Today I must hit JoAnne's Crafts for sparklies. I have a five-hour class at Fusion Beads to learn a new technique, then it's back to Chez [ profile] scarlettina for more Sekrit Project work. It may be a long night. Tomorrow, my coworkers may, in fact, point and laugh at my condition.

And away we go....
scarlettina: (Circle of Life)
1) The New York Times offers a heartbreaking mini-documentary called The Last Jew in Afghanistan. Recommended.

2) It's another sunny day in Seattle. There will be more walking. There will be story critiquing for Norwescon. (Always leave until the last minute that for which you were prepared a couple of weeks ago. ::sigh::) There will be jewelry making, and there will be writing. There may even be nearly naked feet if it's warm enough--a sure sign of spring.

3) I dreamed last night that I worked for a software company that operated like Charlie's Angels. I took my direction from a voice coming out of an intercom speaker and was directed to program manage the production of the definitive killer app (except it's existed for at least a decade, but in the dream it was very exciting).

4) Preparing for both Passover and Norwescon at the same time is ... interesting.

5) As of later today, I will know more people who are in China than I do people in Idaho, Montana, Utah and Nevada combined.

PS--I'm sending out good thoughts and wishes for Len Wein (creator of Wolverine, among others), his wife Christine and her son Michael Valada, and Aaron Allston. What a tough, tough day yesterday was, balanced only by the goodness of [ profile] mischief_wa bringing her new daughter into the world.
scarlettina: ("So Many Books...")
Finished: Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore. Very amusing, very clever. Not a keeper, but worth the read.

Perusing: Weird Washington, a coffee table book about the strangest places and stories of the state. As I said to [ profile] bedii in comments, this book may be the jumping off point for many a day trip.

Started: The Prometheus Deception by Robert Ludlum. Exciting so far.

Fallout: I dreamed last night that Matt Lauer (the host of The Today Show) shot down a whole team of terrorists attempting to land on the shores of Madagascar in the dead of night. (This is similar to how the Ludlum book begins except, well, Lauer doesn't feature in the story. I have no idea why my backbrain cast him in this role.) Then, suddenly, I was the one who had done it. My brother, dressed in typical 1950s business man attire (suit, overcoat, hat, briefcase) met me on a train (I think) and gave me a train ticket to Colorado (a belated ticket to WorldCon perhaps?) and something like $500 to assist in my get-away. There was something about an unfinished school project in there somewhere, and a sample of homemade compost.

Welcome to my dreamscape. ::sigh::
scarlettina: (Dragons Ahead)
...and I know this because my dreams tell me so. Let me explain.

This week's chapter of the room switcheroo is to reorganize the closets now that two of the major rooms are done. The closet in what's now my bedroom contains a nearly-ten-year-old Apple LCII plus printer, plus two external hard drives all packaged up in large, unwieldy storage boxes. Once those boxes are removed and their contents recycled, the closet will have room to be a closet again rather than merely hardware storage. I knew there was stuff on those drives I wanted, though, including among other things, correspondence with [ profile] dochyel, short stories long since abandoned, etc. Well, long story short, I enlisted [ profile] snarke's help to extract said stuff. I spent most of last night at his place while he did his voodoo. It felt like going back in time, seeing that old Apple system 7 interface again, and seeing the names of all those old files plus other files I'd forgotten about. The nostalgia was overwhelming, the sense of leaving things behind, the sense of closure.

At the same time, I learned that [ profile] snarke's senior kitty Dominic, the only cat I've ever known [ profile] snarke to own, has developed an enormous growth in his belly that will take him from us, probably later this week. The visit was my chance to give him final pets and scritches and to say goodbye to him. My boys got lots of loving last night and tonight.

Yesterday afternoon, I heard a piece on NPR about inherited homes in New Orleans, the informality of such inheritance in poorer communities, and the troubles that victims of Hurricane Katrina were having trying to prove ownership of destroyed properties.

What with other things ending this week, it's obviously a time of transition. At such times, I often have dreams about houses and last night was no exception. I dreamed that I was living in a big house that I'd inherited from my parents. A storm was brewing and rain was beginning to leak in just as my brother and I discovered an entire wing we'd forgotten existed: two stories tall, busted-out windows with torn curtains flapping in the rain-whipped breeze. (How we could have forgotten a whole wing is beyond me, because we discovered it by looking out a window...but this is dream logic, right?) All I could think of was all the furniture in the wing that I wanted to save. At the same time, I found myself thinking that I'd lived all this time without that furniture; would saving it really make a difference? I was terribly torn, and something was pulling me away from the window, something that wouldn't let me go.

I can still feel that weird push-me-pull-you sense of conflict, the nostalgia of looking at all this beautiful old furniture, and the need to move on away from it. It's still immediate, all these hours later. And it's evident to me that this one dream wrapped up all this other stuff, plus a couple of things I haven't mentioned here. Beginnings and endings, it's all related.

And it's nice to be a cognitive dreamer. Makes dream interpretation much easier and helps me do my therapist's work for her.


scarlettina: (Default)

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